A Special Kind of Hell
by fuxfell
Summary: There's something... more between Athos and d'Artagnan, something neither will admit to, because it's... unthinkable. So far this is a collection of loosely connected scenes more than a continuous story, glimpes into Ahtos' or d'Artagnan's heads respectively.
1. Unwelcome

_So, I was suprised how much Athos/d'Artagnan fanfiction there is. I probably should not have been surprised, but I was. When I started reading a few though, I always thought: This is too easy. Homosexuality could get a man executed in the time of Louis XIII after all. So they should not rush headlong into a relationship. That's what I feel, at least._

 _And with that thought, a couple of plot bunnies started breeding, and this is the result. Hope you like._

 _A warning for the fluff fans: This might not be to your tastes, because I love me a good dose of angst :)_

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* * *

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Athos whirls and stabs, slashes and parries, a small, grim smile on his face. He loves those training sessions with his friends, the sound of his sword clashing with Porthos', the fluent, graceful movements, the answering smile on his old friend's face. The symmetry, the harmony of it all, just like a carefully choreographed dance.

It's the only time he feels alive these days. Then, and in the thick of battle, adrenaline rushing his veins, his life in the balance, every second possibly his last.

He craves those moments, though he will never admit it, even to his friends. Would never allow himself to grow reckless, rush headlong into danger, tempting as it might be sometimes. But his control is better than that, his inner demons never stronger than his will. He lives with the emptiness every day, but he will not let it destroy him, will not throw his life away meaninglessly.

He will _not_ let her win.

He might try to fill the void with a bottle from time to time, but he will not give her that. Never.

Not as long as he has this.

He steps back gracefully, letting the tip of Porthos' sword pass him by an inch, and rolls on the ground, passing Porthos, his foot shooting out, kicking Porthos's feet from under him. As his friend goes down, Athos nimbly jumps up, the tip of his own sword pressing into Porthos's throat.

"You're dead", he says.

Porthos grimaces as Athos steps back, holding out his hand to help his friend up, grin on his face, a wild light in his eyes. Alive. If only for a minute.

Porthos grabs his hand and gets up with the fluid grace of a true swordsman. "Cheat", he grumbles, clapping Athos on the shoulder. "I'll pay you back next time."

"You can try", Athos states drily, turning away with a swirl of his cape.

That's when he catches d'Artagnan's eyes and nearly stumbles. They are fixed on him, dark and hot, burning with something between hunger and adoration.

Athos feels his heart skip a beat, caught in the boy's intent stare. An unfamiliar feeling settles in his stomach, something he has not felt for a long, long time. A fluttering, giddy sensation, making his heart beat faster and his breath catch.

Something he has not felt since…

And feeling it now is wrong on so many levels, he cannot even begin to count them. He feels blood rising to his cheeks and turns away abruptly, ripping his gaze from the boy's eyes, and catches the frown on Aramis' face as he glances from Athos to the boy and back.

Always too observant, Aramis.

Athos forces the feeling of shame down that threatens to choke him, clamping down on the whole unwelcome miasma of sensations with an iron will, as he marches out of the courtyard with long strides, seemingly unconcerned, his face showing the usual nothing.

But he knows he will need more than one bottle tonight to find some rest.


	2. Uncomfortable

_So, this is the second scene in my collection, set maybe a week or two after the first. Athos POV again. Hope you like._

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* * *

 _._

He can't just leave. It would look odd.

That's what Athos keeps telling himself as he leans back against the wooden post, arms crossed in front of his chest, and watches d'Artagnan as he spars with Porthos. The boy's got real talent, that much has always been obvious, but now, as he slowly learns to control that temper of his, he's truly becoming someone to reckon with.

And here Athos is, watching, supposed to observe and train, and wishes himself far, far away. Ever since that day, some weeks ago, he's not felt comfortable whenever d'Artagnan was near.

He's kept his distance, best as he could, and tried to ignore the hurt looks d'Artagnan was giving him. Because he's not been subtle about avoiding the boy.

But he can't skip training, and he can't shirk this responsibility, as much as he wants to.

Because that really would look… odd.

But standing here, forced to watch d'Artagnan in that delicate dance with Porthos, is a special kind of hell.

Because Athos can't simply turn away and mentally battle down those uncomfortable sensations, wrestle his emotions into submission, and if he fails at that, get a couple of bottles of cheap wine and drown what's left.

He has to stay and _watch_.

His eyes follow d'Artagnan as he twists and turns, parries and slashes, the boy's brows drawn together in concentration, trying to stand his ground against his older, more experienced and physically stronger opponent. His lithe body is in constant movement, quick and graceful.

So tempting.

Athos gaze is riveted to d'Artagnan's form, and all of his fabled iron will can't push those hated feelings down. His stomach is in knots, he feels like he's on fire, and he prays to a god that probably has given up on him long ago that the shameful, forbidden thoughts that cross his mind are not visible on his face.

He wants to scream in frustration, because this was all he had left, crossing swords with his friends the only moments worth still living for, and now it's been poisoned, poisoned by those feelings he can't seem to master. Feelings so wrong he simply refuses to put a name to them.

No one must ever know.

So he stays, because he has to, throttles the urge to scream into submission, and puts on his usual impassive front, hoping it's enough.

But of course, it isn't.

His view to his newest obsession is suddenly blocked by the slightly worried face of the last member of their merry crew. Aramis' eyes are sad as he lays a hand on Athos' shoulder.

" _Mon ami_ , don't", he says quietly. "Looks like that can get a man into the Bastille. Or burnt on a pyre. Don't do this to yourself."

Athos leans his head back against the wooden post, and closes his eyes as shame, burning like acid, rises like bile in this throat.

Of course it wasn't enough. Always much too observant, Aramis.

Athos pushes away from the post, knocking into Aramis and hardly noticing. His stomach twists, and he's not sure if the urge to puke his guts out or to laugh crazily is stronger as he stumbles out of the courtyard into the street blindly, no longer caring how odd it looks.

 _Caught._

Just when he thought his life could not possibly get worse.

He was wrong. God has not forgotten about him. God _hates_ him.

He's not sure there's enough cheap wine in all of Paris to help him rest tonight, but he's determined to find out.


	3. Pathetic

_The third scene, set in the morning after Uncomfortable. **  
**_

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* * *

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Athos groans and opens his bleary eyes, already nearly regretting the excesses of the previous evening. His head is pounding, his stomach feels queasy, and if he goes by the taste, something has crawled in and died in his mouth. And his teeth sure have grown fur.

The weak sun shining through his less than clean window seems to send stabs of pain directly into his skull. He groans again and tries to roll over to find a bit more sleep, but there it is again, the noise that has woken him: Someone rapping at his door.

"Go 'way", he moans, the prospect of moving less than appealing.

The rapping comes again, louder this time.

"Hell", he shouts, wincing as his own loud voice sends another ache through his poor head. "Leave the damn door whole, will you?", he mumbles under his breath as he clumsily stumbles out of bed and lurches to the door.

"What?", he barks - though not too loud - as he rips open the door. And blinks, feeling like someone had punched him right on the nose.

He was right. God really hates him. Why else would he do that to Athos?

He stares into d'Artagnan's face, fresh as the morning, but with a slightly restive expression, as if he knows he is not welcome here, and feels the familiar mix of longing and shame. He has worked so hard to drown these useless feelings the evening before, but it seems like the damn things survived just fine. Maybe they floated.

He stares down into those dark, dark eyes and thinks of the old cliché of drowning in another's gaze. Suddenly, those words do not feel that vapid anymore. He truly wants to drown in d'Artagnan's eyes, and even feels the inclination to compare them to bottomless pools.

With a disgusted noise he rips his gaze away and refuses to look at the boy any longer, instead gazing past him into the hall. Next he would start quoting poetry. Nauseating.

"What do you want?", he asks gruffly.

"You look like hell", d'Artagnan states the obvious, and Athos can _feel_ the questioning gaze on his face, even if he still refuses to look at the boy.

"Yeah", he just says, noncomittally.

D'Artagnan waits for a couple of heartbeats, seemingly expecting more of a response, then sighs.

"The Captain sent me to fetch you", he says, sounding defeated.

Athos nods - once, because it _hurts_. "I'll be along", he mumbles, and starts to shut the door. The last thing he needs is d'Artagnan, in his room, looking at him with that wounded expression. As if Athos has done something wrong.

When in fact he's trying so hard _not_ to do something wrong. Something terribly, terribly wrong.

But d'Artagnan's hand shoots out, catching the door before it can close.

"Why... why do you hate me so much?", he asks, and God, there even is a slight quiver in his voice.

Athos sighs, clamping down on the urge to reach out for the boy. And by God, no man's hair has the right to look this silky, simply begging to be touched. Soft, silky and glossy. A man's hair should be coarse and dull, like Athos' own. Not alluring at all.

"I don't", he says shortly, and tries to close the door again, but d'Artagnan has a mulish look now, and won't step back.

"You don't?", he replies, and he glares at Athos, but Athos can sense the hurt behind the words and quickly looks away, still refusing to meet that dark, smouldering gaze.

"See?", d'Artagnan cries, affronted. "You can't even _look_ at me. You haven't looked at me for weeks." His voice catches a little. "As if... I'm dirty. Disgusting." He swallows, his face flushing a bit, but soldiers on. "And I want to know why."

"You're delusional", Athos says wearily. He does not want to be here. He does not want to have this discussion with d'Artagnan. Not now, not ever. All of this would be so much easier if he truly found the boy disgusting. If he really could hate him.

But he doesn't. And that, he will never tell.

No one must ever know.

No one can ever know the sick, unnatural desires rising in him when looks at the boy. No one can know the depraved monster that lives in him.

No, d'Artagnan is not the disgusting one.

"I know what it is", d'Artagnan's voice reaches Athos' ear, his tone desperate, and for a second sheer terror grips Athos, turning his blood to ice, because he thinks he's been found out, and d'Artagnan _knows_.

"It's because of _her_ , isn't it?", d'Artagnan continues, totally oblivious of the panic his words have caused.

Athos blinks, trying to get his breathing back under control. Her? Which her? Not found out then? God be praised.

"What are you talking about?", he asks, his voice hoarse from shock and hangover.

"I'm so sorry, Athos, so sorry, you must believe me", d'Artagnan blurts, agitated now, moving forward into the still half open door, forcing Athos to take a step back, while he reaches out, beseeching. "I did not know, how could I have known? I did not even know _you_ then! I just met her, and she was beautiful, and she... it just happened, but you know I would never knowingly touch your _wife_!"

Athos blinks again, relief flooding him, making his knees week. So this is what d'Artagnan thinks this is all about?

Thank God. This, he can handle.

"I saw your face, when you realized what happened", d'Artagnan continues, and this time, it's him averting his gaze. "You looked ready to murder someone. I know you hate me for it. But I never meant to hurt you. You must believe me."

Athos stares at the lowered head, the curtain of that shimmering dark hair hiding most of the boy's face.

Ready to murder someone?

Oh yes, he had been. He had been so furious, the thought of Anne in d'Artagnan's arms driving him crazy. But the reason for his fury was much more complex than the boy could ever dream.

Yes, he wanted to kill d'Artagnan, because he dared touch what had been his. He still loves Anne, has never stopped loving her, wanting her, not even when he thought she was dead. Dead by his own hand - or as good as. Her loss left him an empty husk, but he has never been able to let go of his feelings for her.

He had wanted to kill Anne, wanted to kill her for daring to corrupt the one pure thing left in his life, for getting her dirty hands on d'Artagnan, tainting his innocence with her poison. Wanted to kill her for being able to touch where he never could.

He wanted to be the third in their bed, wanted to devour Anne while he felt d'Artagnan's mouth on his cock, wanted to kiss d'Artagnan while they held Anne between them, both buried deep inside her, filling her, sating her.

Those unbidden, perverse images had forced themselves into his brain, as he tried to come to terms with what he just learned. A morbid, twisted desire that left him hard as a rock and filled with mortification and hot, sick guilt.

Most of all, he had wanted to kill himself.

And now the pictures flood back into his mind, choking him with unhealthy, forbidden lust, leaving him hard and wanting again.

No, no, no, no.

He stumbles back from the boy until he hits the wall, then squeezes his eyes shut and bangs his already aching head back against the rough stone.

"Get out", he growls. He needs d'Artagnan to leave, leave now, before he does something inexcusable, something irrevocable.

"Athos...", d'Artagnan starts, his voice pleading, but Athos can't do this, he just can't, and d'Artagnan needs to go, now. Before it's too late.

"Get _out_!", Athos roars, his hands balled to fists, and screaming hurts his head, but that is nothing against the pain he feels where his heart used to be.

He hears d'Artagnan gasp and retreat, but refuses to open his eyes. He can imagine the hurt and betrayal on the boy's face, and imagining is bad enough, thank you very much. He does not need to _see_.

The door slams shut, and he hears d'Artagnan running down the steps.

Athos sinks down the wall, hands clapped in front of his face and feels hot tears flowing through his fingers.

No wonder God hates him.

He is pathetic.


	4. Rejected

_So, here's a peek into d'Artagnan's head, the evening after Athos had his hissy fit. Enjoy :)_

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* * *

 _ **.**_

 _ **Rejected**_

D'Artagnan sits on the stool in the dinky tavern he chose for that evening, his chin in his hands, and stares into the goblet of wine on the table in front of him. The hubbub and din around him has faded into the background as his mind drifts, deep in thoughts.

There is an ache in his heart he just does not understand. Has been there for weeks, and it's worse today, after Athos kicked him out of his lodgings.

D'Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut, as if that could shut out the painful memory of Athos' face, scrunched up with fury, his hands balled to fists, his whole body shaking with rage. Back against the wall, as far from d'Artagnan as he can get in the small room.

God, that _hurt_.

He understands, he truly does. He has done something unforgivable. Has slept with Athos' wife.

But it still hurts so much. He does not get it, but somehow it's even worse than Constance's rejection. That hurt, too. But he simply picked himself up and kept going. He still had his friends, after all.

But this...

Yes, there's always Aramis and Porthos, and they apparently don't share Athos' anger and contempt. They seem to understand that d'Artagnan never meant for all this to happen, that he would undo his tryst with Milady if he could somehow turn back time. They still accept d'Artagnan as one of them, same as before.

But for some reason, Athos has always been the one hat mattered most. D'Artagnan is not sure himself why that is, but it is a simple fact. Athos has been the one he looked up to, the one whose acceptance he always tried to win. He was never happier than in training, knowing that Athos was watching him, approval in his eyes at a particularly clever move, at a duel won. D'Artagnan trained so hard, just to see this look on the older man's face.

And he loved watching Athos fight. Watching that slender, but powerful body move, all lean muscles and grace. But most of all he loved the expression on Athos' face when he was sparring, that excited, animated light in his usually so cold, dead eyes, the rare smile on his lips.

Something seemed to squeeze d'Artagnan's chest in these moments, and there was a yearning in his heart he could not name.

There was this moment, a couple of weeks ago, when he was watching Athos fight Porthos. As usual, he had not been able to take his eyes off Athos, admiring those fluent, powerful movements. Athos defeated Porthos with a particularly clever and artistic trick that day, and d'Artagnan just felt that strange... yearning, seeing Athos grin in triumph. It was such a rare expression for Athos, and d'Artagnan could not help but think that Athos looked... beautiful.

And then Athos turned, and their eyes met, and they stared at each other, and d'Artagnan felt...felt... But then Athos turned away and left.

Thinking back, that was the last time d'Artagnan has seen Athos in anything resembling a happy mood.

Yes, these moments had been precious to him.

And now, they are just... gone, and he does not understand how and why. These days, Athos fights grimly, angrily, like he's trying to beat his opponent into submission. There is no light in his eyes anymore, no smile on his lips, only clenched teeth, narrowed eyes and a deep, quiet rage in his movements that makes d'Artagnan shudder to think what will happen if Athos ever loses his grip on it.

And after training, Athos just - leaves. A nod to Aramis and Porthos, and off he goes without sparing a single glance for d'Artagnan. Just leaves with long, quick strides as if he can't get away fast enough.

Can't get away from _him_ fast enough.

He's not a girl. It should not hurt so much.

But it does.

Because Athos _matters_ in a way the others do not.

Oh, he likes them well enough. Aramis is a good friend, open and easygoing. Porthos is... Porthos, quiet, a bit grim, but like a rock in a storm. D'Artagnan does not find it as easy to connect with Porthos as he does with Aramis, but there is something reliable about the older Musketeer, something that tells him Porthos will always have his back.

But Athos... there is something in him that draws d'Artagnan, draws him like he has never experienced before. They all have their secrets, their burdens to bear, things they have done or seen they are not proud of, want no one to know.

Athos - there's something more, d'Artagnan can just feel it. Athos carries a darkness inside the others have not. Sometimes, when you look into his eyes, it is like looking into a void so deep it makes you shiver. Athos seems empty, like a vital part of him is missing. A dead man walking. And d'Artagnan feels his heart going out to him, wants to help him, help him heal, fill that void.

Rather like a girl, if he thinks about it. Like a girl with a crush.

He can't help but blush a little, even thinking it.

And today, when Athos screamed at him to go, go away, leave him alone - d'Artagnan felt like crying. Because instead of helping, he made Athos' burden worse, hurt him even more.

Athos will probably never look at him again, other than with loathing. And d'Artagnan can't even blame him. Sleeping with another's wife - unforgivable.

Even though he did not know.

He can't bear the thought. It has been eating at him all day, making him miserable like he's never known misery before. And when he could not take it anymore, he's come here, thinking he'd try Athos' method to deal.

He picks up his goblet and takes a swallow of the cheap, sour wine. And grimaces, putting the wine down again.

Maybe not.

Thinking about it, it never seems to do Athos a bit of good, anyway.

He groans and pushes his fingers through his hair, at a loss. Where does he go from here? How should he behave towards Athos? Should he just leave him be, hope that he will recover with time? Forgive d'Artagnan, after he has had time to cool off a little?

Should he confront him? Force Athos to face him, face the situation? Risk turning that fissure between them into a permanent rift?

But that might also happen if he does nothing, hoping that time will heal that wound.

His heart clenches at the notion. He can't lose Athos. Can't bear the thought.

And how girly is that?

And what exactly are those feelings he has for Athos?

Does he...

No. No, no.

Can't be.

Unthinkable.

He just cares for Athos, is all. As a friend. And kind of a mentor.

A surrogate father figure. That's it. Even if Athos is still rather young...

And this train of thought has to end here. Right now.

D'Artagnan eyes the goblet of wine with distaste.

This is not the solution for him, that much is clear. He throws a couple of coins on the table and turns to leave, dodging a couple of soiled doves that approach him hopefully without even truly noticing them, still deeply lost in his thoughts.

He will go home and get a good night's rest. He will train hard tomorrow, will work his ass off until he is the best of them all.

And then... Athos will not reject him anymore.


	5. Depressed

_So, here's chapter 5. Still d'Artangan's POV, set a couple of days after Rejected._

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D'Artagnan walks slowly through the narrow, winding lanes of nightly Paris. He is feeling thoroughly depressed, but what else is new these days?

The situation with Athos was just getting worse and worse.

D'Artagnan has taken the coward's way out in the end, deciding not to confront Athos about their… issues. He's found many perfectly rational reasons for it, but deep inside, he knows he's just afraid. Afraid to drive the wedge even deeper, to make the rift irreversible.

So he'd just kept his distance, hoping that Athos would come around with time.

Only, that did not happen. Quite the contrary, Athos has withdrawn more and more, often even skipping training, something that was unheard of before. And his drinking has become worse than ever. There's hardly a morning anymore he's not badly hung over. Often, he does not leave his lodgings before noon, still looking like hell warmed over.

And he's picked up whoring. D'Artagnan has never seen him with one of the many courtesans of Paris before, but for the last couple of days, he has picked one up for the night more often than not. D'Artagnan hates seeing Athos with one of them. They never seem… good enough for him. Whenever d'Artagnan sees them pawing Athos, he gets angry. Seeing Athos touch or kiss one makes him feel physically ill, for some reason.

So he's started to actively avoid Athos in the evenings, visiting taverns where he was not likely to run into the other Musketeer. Since Athos seemed to have a similar idea – and this should not have hurt at all, but it does – he was quite successful in this endeavor.

Which led to d'Artagnan rarely seeing Athos at all anymore.

Which in turn might have something to do with his ever present depression.

Feeling the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall just to stop thinking, d'Artagnan groans and rubs his knuckles against his eyes.

To make things worse, he himself is stone cold sober. Seeing Athos drink himself to oblivion is rather spoiling his own taste for alcohol. So he left the tavern for the night, thinking he might put in another hour of training or so.

He still harbors the hope that Athos will come round if d'Artagnan only becomes a good enough Musketeer.

D'Artagnan rounds a corner and stops dead in his tracks. There is a figure walking in that lane, a very familiar figure. Even in the dark.

Athos walks very slowly and deliberately, one hand brushing along the grimy houses for support. His head is lowered as he stares at the ground while walking. He is obviously – no surprise here – very, very drunk.

And d'Artagnan's heart clenches at the sight. Thankfully, at least Athos is alone tonight.

D'Artagnan stands still, rooted to the spot, his thoughts racing around like rabbits in his head. His heart, for some reason, has started hammering in his chest. His fingers grow moist.

What should he do? Quietly walk the other way?

Something in him yearns to see Athos, hear his voice, have him _look_ at d'Artagnan for a change. Acknowledge his existence.

But he knows he will only be disappointed again. Knows that the smart thing to do would be just to leave.

He bites his nails in indecision, his gaze fixed on the slowly approaching figure. So far, Athos has not noticed him, has not lifted his head once.

He should leave. Nothing good can come out of this encounter, not with Athos drunk out of his mind.

Just when d'Artagnan comes, rather reluctantly, to that decision, Athos stumbles. Quickly, without thinking, d'Artagnan jumps forward to catch him, ending up with a whole lot of heavy, drunk Musketeer suddenly in his arms.

He closes his eyes as the smell hits his nose - the unpleasant stink of cheap booze not entirely masking the smell that is just Athos, warm and spicy. Something stirs in d'Artagnan, something he really does not want to explore further, something that makes him want to just wrap his arms around Athos and stay like this.

A choking noise rouses him, and he looks up, meeting Athos' wide and somehow panicked gaze. The older man's normally so shuttered face is like an open book now, his famous control blown by drink.

"No, no, no", Athos moans and tries to stumble back, away from d'Artagnan, but d'Artagnan follows, refuses to let go, knowing Athos would just fall over if he did.

"No", Athos gasps again. "Go away."

D'Artagnan clamps down on the hurt that causes. He knew it would be like this, after all.

"Athos", he tries to reason, his voice not entirely steady. "Let me take you home. You can't walk around in this state."

Perfectly reasonable, right? Right.

Athos laughs hoarsely, and there is a note of despair in that laugh that frightens d'Artagnan, makes him think that Athos is closer to the edge than anyone had thought. He is always so tightly controlled that it's nearly impossible to tell what he's feeling at all.

But now - he's scaring d'Artagnan. Makes him want to stick to Athos to make sure he does not do something incredibly stupid.

Damn Milady. How can she do this to Athos? He is such a good man, and she drives him to despair. It makes d'Artagnan so angry. Makes him want to...

He feels nearly relieved when Athos interrupts that train of thought.

"Take me home?" he asks, his voice rough. "I don't think so. No, no. Bad idea. Bad. Don't know what you're asking. Let go."

D'Artagnan meets Athos's eyes, and the panic there is gone, replaced by something like desperation, and a lot of determination. But lurking underneath is something wild... something feral, that sends d'Artagnan's heartbeat spiraling and freezes him like the proverbial rabbit. Leaves him wanting... something.

Nervously, he licks his lips, and Athos' gaze snags to d'Artagnan's mouth.

He gives something like a growl and pushes d'Artagnan backwards, pressing him against the wall. Athos' face is buried in d'Artagnan's neck, Athos' quick, heavy breathing sliding over his skin, raising goose bumps.

That undefinable something stirs in d'Artagnan again, making him shiver, and his hands grab Athos' shoulders, seeking support.

"Athos...", he gasps, not sure what he even wants to say.

Athos makes a strangled noise, and his mouth wanders up d'Artagnan's neck, hot and open, and d'Artagnan's head falls back, his thoughts tangled as a hot feeling of lust explodes in his stomach.

Athos' mouth has reached d'Artagnan's ear. " _Run_ ", he rasps, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating with urgency. The sound seems to reach right into d'Artagnan, and just like that, he's hard, so hard, achingly hard, and he wants... wants...

A breathless moan escapes d'Artagnan, his fingers digging into Athos's shoulders, and suddenly, Athos' mouth is on his, hard, demanding, greedy, and Athos makes a sound like a sob as he grips d'Artagnan's hair to pull his head back, to deepen the kiss.

D'Artagnan mewls, wanting more, needing more, his cock on fire, his head in a haze, the only thing he's aware of the desire burning through his body. He arches his back, seeking more contact, desperately seeking more of Athos, and then Athos' tongue is in his mouth, and Athos' hand is on his cock, gripping it roughly through his breeches, and d'Artagnan screams into Athos' mouth, bucking as he comes in his trousers like a virgin with no control at all.

D'Artagnan sinks back against the wall, still clinging to Athos' shoulders, his knees weak, breathing heavily, his mind in chaos as slowly, the enormity of what just happened starts to sink in. Athos follows, panting, pressing against him, and d'Artagnan can feel the hardness against his hip.

Panic grips him just as Athos harshly, breathlessly growls " _Run_ , boy!", again, and this time, d'Artagnan does, pushing away from the wall, past Athos, who lets him go without resistance, and runs into the night as fast as his still wobbly legs will take him.

He runs blindly, not looking or caring where he's going, until finally, he can't run anymore, and he sinks down against the dirty wall of a house in one of Paris' uncounted dark alleys, gasping for air, and stares sightlessly into the night.

What have they _done_?

xxx

Meanwhile, Athos leans his head against the wall where d'Artagnan has been just moments ago, imagining he can feel a bit of his warmth, catch a remnant of his scent. He gives a noise that is somewhere between a sob and a bitter laugh as despair chokes him.

He blew it. It's over.

D'Artagnan is going to hate him now.

He stumbles away from the spot, in what he thinks is the right direction to his lodgings, but not really caring where he ends up.

He never notices the dark, hooded figure he passes in an archway just a few yards further. The figure steps out, looking after Athos, and lets out a small, thoughtful whistle, already processing all the possibilities that interesting discovery is offering.


	6. Determined

_The morning after, Athos style._

.

* * *

.

Mornings have become hell for Athos. Not only is his head usually killing him these days, but the stupor of the alcohol-drenched night before is gone, leaving him to face reality once more.

And this morning, said reality causes Athos to bang his badly aching head against the bedstead and wish he could just die of shame.

The memory of the night before is unsurprisingly hazy, but he remembers enough to make him cringe.

He has... assaulted d'Artagnan. Out in the open, to boot, where every man and his dog could have seen them.

Stupid. So incredibly stupid.

And totally out of control.

He has just... lost it. Somehow, this moment stands out of the murk with stunning clarity: The tip of d'Artagnan's tongue, sliding along those soft lips, and what the sight of that did to Athos. Like the last drop making a small fissure in a dam finally give way under all that pressure, blowing the whole thing open.

Before he knew it, he had shoved d'Artagnan against the next best wall, trying so hard to reign it in, that sick desire raging through him. But instead, he ended up with his tongue down d'Artagnan's throat, pawing the boy through his breeches.

Downside of heavy drinking: You lost control so much easier.

He groans and bangs his head against the bedstead once more, as if that could make those shameful memories disappear. Does not work of course. Because in the light of day, what he's done seems even more catastrophic than last night.

He dimly remembers d'Artagnan screaming, bucking against Athos' hand, and for a few seconds wonders if maybe d'Artagnan... but this is nonsense, the boy is in love with Constance. Besides, he's what? Twenty? He probably comes when shoved against a horse's backside.

Alright, so that's a picture Athos does _not_ need in his head.

He also remembers the boy running into the night as far as his legs took him, finally wising up and getting the hell away from Athos. Leaving him against the wall, suddenly feeling more empty, cold and lost than he ever had.

Except maybe once, watching the noose being laid around Anne's throat.

He remembers stumbling home, his cock so hard it hurt, falling face down on the bed, stubbornly refusing to touch the cursed thing. It was what got Athos into trouble in the first place, the filthy thing wanting what it could never have. Should never want.

Then, he blessedly passed out.

But now, he's awake again, and he has to deal. Even if he does not have the slightest idea how.

The thought of having to face d'Artagnan makes him shudder. How can he? How should he look the boy in the eyes?

D'Artagnan must hate him now, after what he did last night.

What will his reaction be? Revulsion? Scorn? Will he confront Athos, causing a scene, or just turn away completely, shutting Athos out?

Both possibilities make Athos cringe.

It's not just a matter of his personal shame, after all. This... thing could destroy them all, destroy the friendship all four of them share. If d'Artagnan refuses to work with Athos suddenly, there are going to be... questions. And he shudders to think what the answers could do to their little team.

On the other hand, d'Artagnan is a good kid. Maybe he'd even forgive Athos for his attack last night.

But wouldn't that be even worse?

Athos cannot trust himself anymore, that much is very clear. What happens the next time he loses it?

Even if Athos does not value his own life very much, he will not endanger d'Artagnan. Will not risk the boy being imprisoned, or even executed, for sodomy.

The fault may be Athos' alone, but it will not make the slightest difference. Athos has seen it before, how even the slightest suspicion of unnatural desires can get a man killed.

He could doom the boy just by not being able to take his eyes off him. Because Athos knows himself well enough to understand that he can't go back to the easy friendship they once had.

Not with the monster d'Artagnan wakes in him.

No. This won't do at all. Time to start acting like a man.

He's tried everything he could think of to get rid of those damned feelings so far. Drinking himself to oblivion does not work obviously. Has turned out to be dangerous even. Letting off some steam with nameless, faceless whores - because, let's face it, he's been living like a monk, thought that maybe he was just so hard-up even the boy looked good - has also proved to be a failure.

A huge failure, to be exact, because he could _feel_ d'Artagnan watching him while he was engaged with those women, and that sadly proved to be the only thing exciting about those encounters. Meeting d'Artagnan's eyes when one of them had her hands on Athos sent something like a tingling bolt through his body. Feeling the boy's disapproving glare when Athos touched the women made his heart race. Athos even stooped to putting on a bit of a show, just to see that reprehensive frown, the upset look on d'Artagnan's face. Truly pathetic.

He has to face it, his efforts so far to distract himself from those hated feelings have failed spectacularly. That means there is only one option left for him, even if it hurts just to think about it.

But what needs to be done needs to be done.

Determined, he shoves the blanket down and gets up, wincing at the sudden pain in his head, but he just grits his teeth, and keeps going.

He is through with all that dithering. That's not him anyway. He knows what to do, and he will do it. Just as he always does.

Even if it probably kills him this time.


	7. Awake

_The morning after, d'Artagnan style._

.

* * *

.

Morning comes much too soon.

When d'Artagnan opens his eyes from a fitful sleep, reality hits him with all the subtlety of a ton of bricks.

He has... made out with Athos.

And while Athos has the excuse of being completely wasted, he himself has been absolutely sober.

D'Artagnan groans and pulls the blanket over his head. He remembers doing that as a child, whenever he tried to shut out the bad, unfair world. He thought he'd outgrown the gesture.

Obviously not.

But he also remembers it working better when he was small. Now, it does not do much to keep away the memories of the night before.

Such shameful memories.

How could that have happened? He loves Constance, he knows he does. She's kind and smart and gentle and beautiful, everything a man could ever want. Yes, she chose that dolt of a husband over him, and d'Artagnan tries to hate her for it, but he knows deep down he's just fooling himself.

He loves Constance. Desires her. Not even her rejection can change that.

But last night...

He can't even remember how it happened, it was so fast. Suddenly, he found himself shoved against the wall, with Athos pressing into him, pinning him, and his heart started racing, the unexpected feeling of helplessness, of being exposed, weirdly proving to be very exciting.

Then he felt Athos's lips on his throat, and d'Artagnan could not help it, warm arousal pooling in his stomach, and those firm, open lips slid to his ear, Athos' raspy voice like another hot bolt of excitement, and it was as if something just burst in him, and suddenly, he could not think straight anymore, there was only this hot _need_ in his body...

D'Artagnan is so lost in the memories, he does not even realize his hand slowly moving down his stomach towards his hardening shaft.

...and Athos mouth was on his in that hard, greedy, desperate kiss, and that need in his body exploded, and, oh God, Athos' hand on him, touching him...

D'Artagnan moans when his own hand closes around his throbbing cock.

...he came so hard he was seeing stars, can't remember ever coming like this before, helplessly bucking into Athos' hand, screaming into that violent kiss...

There is a loud knock on the door, and d'Artagnan's eyes fly open, his mind rudely pulled back to the present.

"D'Artagnan?", Porthos' deep voice calls out. "Lift your sorry carcass out of bed, the Captain wants to see us."

D'Artagnan jerks his hand away, feeling as if a bucket of ice water had been emptied over his head. Dumbstruck, he lifts his hand and stares at it in utter disbelief.

He _touched_ himself.

To thoughts of Athos.

Oh, _God_.

Still staring at the offending hand, he muffles his agonized groan with his other fist and curls up into a foetal position.

No, no!

His mind tries to shy away from the implication, but reality is a harsh mistress. There's no disputing the facts. As much as he'd like to, he just can't deny it any longer.

He wants Athos.

In _that_ way.

Surrogate father figure. Yeah, right.

D'Artagnan groans again, stricken with guilt and horror. How could he have lied to himself this long?

All those times he watched Athos, feeling this ache in his heart, yearning for something he could not name. That was no mere friendship.

He wants Athos. And it's a _sin_.

So much more of a sin than coveting a married woman.

He bites his knuckles, fighting the urge to rip his hair out in desperation.

Another hard bang on the door makes him flinch.

"D'Artagnan? You getting up, or do I have to bash that door down and drag you out?"

Oh, right. Porthos is still waiting. And knowing the older Musketeer, he has no qualms making good on that threat.

D'Artagnan lifts his head with effort. "One minute", he croaks, hardly recognizing his own voice.

Somehow, he will have to pull himself together, get dressed, put on a normal face, and see the Captain. Where all of his friends will be present, too.

Including Athos.

D'Artagnan barely resists the urge to curl up under his blanket again.

How can he face Athos, after what happened last night? After what he just realized?

His only hope is that Athos was too drunk to remember anything.

With a silent prayer to a God that probably frowns down on his wayward son, d'Artagnan forces himself to get up and face the world.


	8. Shocked

_Chapter 8, wherein we meet Captain Treville in a very bad mood._

.

* * *

.

Confused, d'Artagnan glances from Aramis to Porthos and back, but the other two look just as baffled as he feels.

Behind his desk, Captain Treville stares them down, one after the other without saying a word, looking like a storm cloud ready to burst. The man is _seething_.

There's no sign of Athos.

And d'Artagnan gets a very, very bad feeling, settling in his stomach like a ball of lead.

"Alright, you three. I want to know what happened. Spit it out."

The Captain's voice is low, threatening, his eyes narrowed to slits as he glowers at the men, who just share some confused looks.

"Captain?", Aramis asks, tentatively. Treville's glare homes in on him, and Aramis swallows nervously. "Where's Athos?", he adds, and d'Artagnan can't help but admire his guts. He himself wishes he could turn into a mouse and vanish into a hole. He's never seen the Captain this furious.

Treville's hands slap down on his desk as he leans forward, getting into their faces, obviously ready to explode. All three flinch at the noise, and d'Artagnan just barely manages not to take a step back.

"Are you telling me you don't _know_?", the Captain thunders, and this time, d'Artagnan _does_ inch back a little.

Porthos, either very brave, or slightly suicidal, takes a small step forward. "Know what, Captain?", he asks, bewildered.

Treville picks up a letter on his desk and throws it back down again, hard.

"Athos resigned this morning", he growls. "And you three clowns are going to tell me _why_."

D'Artagnan feels himself going white as a sheet. Afraid his reaction must give him away, his eyes meet those of his friends, but they look just as pale and shocked as he does. Though probably for different reasons.

"Well?", the Captain bellows, and their eyes snap back to him. " _Talk!_ "

Porthos swallowed nervously. "We... don't know", he says, blessedly speaking for them all, assuming the others would be just as much in the dark as he is. "Didn't he say?"

The Captain sighs and slumps into his chair, deflated, suddenly looking much older, and very tired.

"He gave me some fustian about obligations back home", he growls, rubbing his face. "He was lying through his teeth, did not even _try_ to make it convincing. Are you really telling me you have no idea what this is all about?"

"None", Porthos answers again, and d'Artagnan can't help but notice that Aramis is very quiet, letting Porthos do all the talking, just like himself. But when d'Artagnan glances at the other man, he finds Aramis' eyes on him, hot and furious. D'Artagnan swallows and looks away.

"Alright", the Captain states, pinning them all with another hard stare. "Dismissed. Talk to him, sort this mess out. You're his friends. Get him back here. And that's an order!"

Silently, without talking, they file out of the office and walk down the stairs. In the courtyard, Aramis takes charge.

"Porthos, you're going to check the stables, see if he's ordered his horse. D'Artagnan, you're going to check the taverns he usually frequents. I'm going to his lodgings, see if he's there." Aramis' voice is harsh, angry, and Porthos just nods and turns to leave.

Aramis' still livid glare catches d'Artagnan's eyes, and d'Artagnan feels shame compressing his chest, because he has a very good notion what this is all about, even if he sure is not going to tell.

He glances away and turns to the gate just as Porthos vanishes round the corner. He takes a step forward but feels himself grabbed from behind and violently yanked backwards. Surprised, he looses his footing and is dragged into the small mess adjacent to the courtyard.

Aramis shoves him inside and follows, slamming the door shut behind him. Then he moves forward, just as d'Artagnan stumbles back to his feet, and grabs him by the collar, pushing him against the wall.

His dark eyes bore into d'Artagnan's own. " _What. Happened_.", he growls, and d'Artagnan swallows again, surprised by the other man's ire.

But whatever happened last night, it is between him and Athos. He sure as hell is not going to tell anyone, not even Aramis.

He will not tell anyone. Never.

Swallowing his shame and panic down, he forces himself to relax in Aramis' grip and meet the other man's hard stare.

"Get off me", he says, managing to keep his voice deliberately calm, even if he is shaking inside.

Aramis' eyes narrow, he bends forward, his nose nearly touching d'Artagnan's, his teeth bared in fury.

"You think I'm blind, boy?", he snarls. "I've seen the way you watch Athos, those puppy dog stares, like you're begging for a treat. And I've seen Athos fight his feelings those last weeks, slowly killing himself in the process. So - _what happened_?"

Mortified and stricken at the realization the feelings he had not even admitted to himself had been this obvious to others, d'Artagnan closes his eyes, not able to look into Aramis' face any longer.

But he has to pull himself together. He will not let Athos down.

He takes a deep breath, and slowly, still emphatically calmly, d'Artagnan reaches up and pries Aramis' fingers from his collar.

"I have no idea what you are talking about", he says, proud of himself for sounding so firm, even if his mind is in chaos.

Aramis closes his eyes, sighs, and lets go. "Good", he says. "I don't believe a word you say, but others might. You keep it up this way, and you both might survive this."

He leans back against the wall, next to d'Artagnan, and rubs his face in a helpless gesture.

D'Artagnan turns his head, and glares at Aramis, his relief turning to anger when he realizes this has been some sort of test, but Aramis continues talking before d'Artagnan can say anything.

"Look, I know what the bible says. What the law says. I myself don't believe God frowns on love, whichever form it takes." Aramis turns his head, his eyes meeting d'Artagnan's, looking sad. "But my opinion is not the one that counts. If you're found out, nothing can save you. Athos knows this. That's why he's leaving. Doing the _noble_ thing." Aramis sounds bitter.

D'Artagnan opens his mouth to speak, but Aramis stops him with a gesture. "No, let me finish."

He thinks for a moment, then says: "Athos... This", he gestures around him, "is all he has left. He's lost everything else. His home, his love, his purpose. Being a Musketeer is what keeps him going."

Aramis' head whips around, pinning d'Artagnan with a hard stare. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan. I know what this means to you. But you're young, you're bright, and you have the whole world in front of you. Athos has _nothing_. If you truly care for him, you go and fix this mess."

Aramis pushes off the wall and makes for the door, leaving d'Artagnan to ponder his words.


	9. Failed

D'Artagnan runs through the narrow, busy alleys as fast as he can, dodging carts and horses and the milling crowd as much as possible. His breath is short, his lungs hurt, but he keeps pushing forward, forward, bumping people out of the way, knowing he has to reach Athos' lodgings before it's too late.

Before Athos is gone. Irrevocably gone.

No, no. Must not happen.

Faster. He needs to go faster.

Aramis' words still ring in his ears.

 _You have the whole world in front of you. Athos has nothing._

It hurts, but he knows what he has to do. Aramis is right. Even if d'Artagnan's heart is set on becoming a Musketeer, he has other options. Athos... Athos is just too broken to find another way. He's not even going to bother trying, d'Artagnan just knows it.

And his heart breaks at the thought of Athos leaving, alone, empty, hopeless, in despair. He can't let that happen.

No, Athos has found his place amongst the Musketeers long before d'Artagnan even came along. D'Artagnan will not take that from him.

Panting, he runs up the steps to Athos' room, and without ceremony, just bursts through the door, stopping in the entrance, bending over, fighting for air, but relieved nonetheless.

He is in time.

Athos whirls around at the sudden intrusion, a bag in hand, obviously in the midst of packing his belongings. His face shuts down when he sees d'Artagnan.

"Hell", he says, his tone irritated. "I asked the Captain to keep it to himself for a few hours. Should have known he would set the three of you on my heels right away."

He turns back to stuffing his clothes into the bag. "I'm leaving. Just save your breath and go."

"Athos...", d'Artagnan wheezes, cursing his heaving lungs that simply refuse to provide enough air for talking.

Athos does not even react, just keeps packing. If you could call unceremoniously stuffing crumpled shirts into a bag packing.

"Athos, stop", d'Artagnan gasps again, a bit firmer this time, his body slowly recovering from his mad dash through the city.

"Just go", Athos repeats, wearily. "There's nothing to say."

D'Artagnan straightens and narrows his eyes. Nothing to say, huh? Well, in that case...

Still breathless, acting on impulse, he takes a couple of quick steps forward and simply hugs Athos from behind, wrapping his arms around the older man's shoulders, burying his face in Athos's hair, inhaling that warm, spicy scent.

Taking a deep, shaking breath, d'Artagnan closes his eyes, because insanely, this feels like home, and he wishes they could stay like this forever.

Even if he knows very well it can not last.

Athos stiffens at the sudden contact. "What are you _doing_? Don't touch me!", he hisses, but d'Artagnan simply tightens his embrace, cuddling closer.

Athos growls and tries to shake him off, but d'Artagnan stubbornly clings to him.

"Let go!", Athos grits out, but mulishly, d'Artagnan shakes his head, Athos's hair sliding over his face, making that tempting scent even more prominent in his nose.

"This is wrong, Athos", he murmurs. "You know it. You belong here, with the Musketeers. This is your place. You can't leave."

Athos' hands reach up, grabbing d'Artagnan's, and he does something with his thumb, pressing into d'Artagnans' wrist and with a pained noise, d'Artagnan is forced to let go. Athos steps away from d'Artagnan.

"Watch me", he says, coldly, and picks up his half-packed bag, turning to the door without another glance at d'Artagnan.

Desperate to stop him, d'Artagnan jumps forward, and this time, it's him pushing Athos into the wall. They stare at each other wordlessly, and d'Artagnan knows he has to do something, right now, or it will be too late.

The thought is beyond bearing, and d'Artagnan knows he'll do anything to get Athos to stay.

 _Anything_.

Suddenly afraid of his own courage, he closes his eyes.

"Please. Don't go", he whispers, and he bends forward, pressing his lips to Athos' in a tentative, awkward kiss.

Athos' body goes rigid in surprise, but d'Artagnan can feel the shiver that runs through the older Musketeer. Encouraged, d'Artagnan reaches up to touch Athos' hair, when suddenly, he finds himself violently shoved backwards.

He stumbles and fights to find his footing when Athos' furious voice reaches his ear.

"What are you doing?", Arthos snarls, and again, his hand slams into d'Artagnan's chest, shoving him backwards. "I said don't touch me! Are you insane? Are you _trying_ to get us both killed?"

D'Artagnan feels the first tendril of anger stirring in his own chest. "Harsh words from someone who shoved his tongue down my throat last night", he snarls right back.

Shame flits over Athos face, but his mouth sets in a grim line. "I was drunk out of my mind. What's your excuse?", he replies harshly.

He's echoing d'Artagnan's own thoughts from this morning, and that just irritates d'Artagnan even more.

"Oh", he scoffs, "you were _drunk_. Guess that makes it alright then, does it?"

Athos face closes down, and he turns away. "No", he says, shortly. "It doesn't. And it stops now."

"Right,", d'Artagnan mutters, still angry, but mostly ashamed for having his advances shoved right back in his face. It took all the resolve he could muster to try and show Athos that... he does not mind so much what happened last night.

But Athos rejected him again.

It hurts.

As does the thought of leaving, leaving everything he has found here in Paris behind, his friends, his hopes of becoming a Musketeer, Constance... he can't bear thinking about it.

Cannot bear thinking about leaving Athos behind.

But since Athos will not be swayed, it's the only option left. Because d'Artagnan can't let Athos be the one to go. He knows Aramis is right. It will kill Athos, one way or the other. He will either drink himself to death, or find some other way to meet his end, probably at the point of another man's rapier.

No, d'Artagnan can't let that happen.

He will go back to Gascony. He has a duty to his lands there after all, has neglected them far too long already. He will find a nice girl to marry, raise a bunch of kids, and forget all about Paris. About being a Musketeer. About Constance. About Athos.

He swallows. Yeah, right.

"You don't need to leave", d'Artagnan says, trying his best to sound convincing. "I never got round to telling you, but I have to go back home anyway. Someone has to care for the farm. I will be gone tomorrow, and everything will be as it was before." He nearly chokes on the lie, but is somewhat pleased how firm his voice sounds.

Athos smiles at him then, a sad smile, that seems to cut right into d'Artagnan's heart.

"You always were a wretched liar", Athos states, shaking his head. "Don't bother. Makes no difference to me. This town is lousy with memories. It's not just you. _She's_ here now, too. I need to get out, no matter what."

D'Artagnan wonders for a moment why Athos looks blurry all of a sudden, before he realizes there are tears swimming in his eyes. Appalled with himself, he hastily reaches up to wipe them away, hoping Athos has not noticed, but Athos has already stepped forward.

"Damn", Athos mutters. "No fair." He lets out a deep breath, his head bending forward until his forehead touches d'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan closes his eyes, and leans into the touch, a tiny sliver of hope waking in his chest.

"Athos...", he breathes.

"Just once", Athos whispers, and then his lips touch d'Artagnan's, and d'Artagnan moans softly, that painful longing in his chest surging. His hands slide to Athos' neck, his mouth opens. Athos sighs into his mouth when their tongues meet. It feels so good, and d'Artagnan tries to press closer to Athos, desperate for more contact.

The kiss is slow and sweet, so different from the nearly violent encounter in the alley last night, but d'Artagnan feels arousal stir nonetheless, wants more of this, more... Athos, but already Athos has drawn back, stepping out of d'Artagnan's reach.

D'Artagnan's eyes open, and he wants to say something, something to stop Athos from leaving, but when he looks into those blue eyes, words fail him.

Athos looks at him, a long look, as if he tries to memorize d'Artagnan's face, and d'Artagnan just knows there's nothing he can do or say to stop Athos from leaving. This is goodbye.

Athos closes his eyes and turns away. "Tell the others I was already gone", he says over his shoulder, his voice toneless, but firm. Then he grabs his bag, and is out of the door before d'Artagnan can get out another word, leaving half his stuff behind.

D'Artagnan sinks down on the bed that still smells of Athos, and finally feels those tears spill from his eyes, hating himself for crying like a girl, but not able to stop it either.

He's failed.


	10. Trapped

Athos leaves the building as fast as he can without having to admit to himself he's running away.

But he needs to get out of here. Quickly. Before this aching hole in his chest causes him to turn back.

Frankly, he has no idea where he's going. He certainly can't go back to what he once called home. That is as poisoned with memories as Paris slowly gets to be. No, he will go somewhere else, somewhere no one knows him, and he knows no one.

Where he's going is not nearly as important as what he's getting away from.

Far, far away. Maybe even another country? Will that be far enough to leave his sordid past behind at last?

He ponders the idea while hurrying through the semi-busy morning Paris streets, but right now, he simply is not able to make up his mind. Having to go just hurts too much.

He'll decide later. For now, he will get his horse - that he has already stabled near the gates this morning, before talking to the Captain. He'd eat his hat if one of his friends is not on his way to his old stable to stop him.

Should have thought of packing beforehand, too. On the other hand... He closes his eyes for a second, remembering that last kiss, the way d'Artagnan's lips felt, the way the boy responded.

And before that, d'Artagnan even tried to kiss Athos of his own accord. Hugged him from behind.

As if he, too...

Doesn't matter.

Makes it worse, even.

Because no matter what, this can never be. And Athos can't even fight himself, much less both of them.

No, he needs to leave. It's the only way.

Inhaling deeply, Athos opens his eyes - and stares into the slightly malicious smile on a face he'd hoped he'd never see again.

Or desperately longed to see, depending on the situation and his state of inebriation.

"Good morning, Athos", Anne purrs.

Athos mentally slaps himself, forcing the inevitable nostalgia down that grips him every time he sees his wife.

Because she still _is_ his wife, even after all that happened.

"Great", he mutters, glaring at her. "Just what I needed."

Anne tsks and smiles even more broadly. "Charming, as always. We have to talk."

"I've got nothing to say to you", Athos replies, trying hard not to stare at her, not to drink her sight in. Because this probably will be the last time he sees her, too. And that thought hurts, even now. As if he needed more hurt.

"And as always, just thinking of yourself, are you?", Anne counters. "There is a lot _I_ have to say to you."

Athos resigns himself to the inevitable, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Then talk and get it over with."

"I don't think you want to discuss the matter here", she replies, making a gesture that includes the alley and the dinky houses that line them. "I have... rooms around here. Why don't you follow me?"

"Will you step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly", Athos mutters drily, his arms still crossed, not moving a step.

"As you wish", Anne shrugs, and closes the distance between them with a couple of elegant steps. She stands on tiptoes, much too close, her hands on his shoulders, her face so near to his suddenly, and like every time she's near, he's helpless, captivated by those brilliant green eyes, those sinful red lips.

Her smile turns wicked, because she knows this, knows it very well, and Athos is perfectly aware that she's playing him, but he just can't help himself.

God have mercy on him, but he still loves her, wants her so very much. Doesn't matter that she's a liar, and a thief. A murderer. He loves her.

For five years, his heart has been dead, and he thought he'd never feel anything like this again.

And the only person besides her to ever reach through and touch this empty shell happens to be a cocky farmboy from Gascony.

Does he know how to pick them, or what?

"So", Anne purrs, her mouth just inches from his, "I'm out on a stroll last night, enjoying the fresh air," - Athos snorts at that, but refrains from commenting - "when I come round a corner, and the most peculiar sight hits my eyes."

Her smile is pure evil, and Athos suddenly feels cold dread flow down his spine. Surely she has not...

"There's my husband, and wouldn't you believe it, he's kiss..."

Athos drags himself out of his panicked rigor and claps his hand in front of her mouth.

"Quiet, damn you!", he hisses, horrified and humiliated. She has _seen_ him kissing another man. Of all the people in Paris, it had to be her.

And he thought this day couldn't get any worse.

He feels her lips curl behind his hand. "Told you you wouldn't like to discuss this here", she murmurs, slightly muffled and indistinct through his fingers.

"What do you want?", he asks, icy fear filling his stomach. It does not bear thinking about what she could do with this information. What harm she could cause. To him, and much worse, to the Musketeers. To d'Artagnan.

She could destroy them all with this.

She turns her head to free her mouth. "I told you, I want to talk", she replies, emphatically patient, as if she was talking to a slightly retarded child.

Athos closes his eyes for a second, and draws a deep breath.

"All right", he says, resigned.

After all, what more can she do to him?

Maybe she wants to kill him, but right now, he's not sure he would not consider that a mercy.

XXX

Much later, eyes cast down, d'Artagnan slinks back into the courtyard, where he knows Aramis, Porthos and the Captain will be awaiting him.

Hoping for good news. Probably hoping Athos will be with him.

It has taken him a long time to find the courage - and the composure - to return and face his friends. But there is no helping it, no way around. He has to tell them that he's failed. That Athos is gone.

God, that hurts. Feels like a dagger to the chest. Athos is gone, and d'Artagnan does not know where, or how long. If he will ever return. If they will ever see him again.

Reluctantly, he looks up and faces exactly what he has dreaded: Porthos and Aramis are sitting at the rough-hewn table in the courtyard, the Captain is up on the porch, his hands on the railing, leaning slightly forward. All three stare at him expectantly.

The weight of his failure presses down on d'Artagnan. He has let them down. Let Athos down.

He has to tell them.

But feeling those expectant, hopeful gazes on him, he can't find the words. Mutely, he just shakes his head, his shoulders slumping with defeat.

Porthos curses under his breath. Treville pushes away from the railing with a violent motion, and wordlessly turns around, stepping into his office and slamming the door behind him. D'Artagnan flinches.

But what hits him hardest is Aramis' silent, accusing stare.

Dejected, d'Artagnan lowers his head and shuffles out of the yard, not able to face those reproachful eyes any longer.


	11. Speechless

Athos regards the nearly empty room through slitted eyes. Besides the creaky cupboard, he can see no place for an ambusher to hide. There's a metal bedstead against the wall with white sheets that look surprisingly fresh, a rickety table with two equally rickety chairs, and a semi-clean window that lets a trickle of sunlight in, illuminating the peeling paint and crumbling plaster on the walls.

Apart from the few pieces of furniture, the room is empty.

Still tense and expecting the worst, Athos glances behind him, in case someone was hiding in the stairwell and is now sneaking up on him.

Anne walks through the room and leans against the window. "Relax", she says, amusement in her voice. "I really want to talk to you. For starters."

That does not sound exactly encouraging to Athos. He eyes his wife warily, and realises she has placed herself perfectly. In front of the window, him looking against the light, her face is a blur, while she can watch him precisely.

So like her. Always seeking the advantage.

Also, the light filtering through her dark, glossy hair looks like a halo, which to Athos seems rather like a joke played on him.

Because if there's anything she is not, it is a saint.

But so very, very beautiful. If only those happy days in her arms were not so deeply ingrained in his memory, this might be easier. But he remembers all too well, her touch, her scent, her smile. A genuine - or so he thought - smile in those days, not the malicious sneer she wears now.

God, he needs to get out of here. The small room suddenly seems suffocating.

"This is your room?", he asks, just to get this started, get it over with.

Anne scoffs. "As if I would show you where I lived, so you can come by and kill me in my sleep, finish what you started?"

A stab of anger makes Athos narrow his eyes. "That is more _your_ line of work, isn't it?" he counters, sharply.

"Ah yes", she mocks, " _you'd_ rather send a couple of your friends to pick me up, wouldn't you? So I can swing from the end of a rope again, but not before I had a couple of weeks rotting in jail, to look forward to it." She tosses her head back and glares at him. "Frankly, I'd prefer to have my throat slit."

Athos takes an angry step forward, his voice raised as his temper got the better of him. "You killed my brother! Justice had to be served. I only did my duty!"

Anne throws up her hands, and steps forward too, getting into his face, her eyes bright with rage. "So it was your _duty_ to not even listen to what I had to say? Not to hear me out, hear my side of things? Yes, your brother found out who I was. And he took it as an excuse to try and rape me! I was just defending myself! What did you expect me to do? Lie back and take it?"

A slight movement of her arm, and suddenly there is a dagger pressing into Athos throat. He stares down into her face, so beautiful in her fury, and closes his eyes, because looking at her hurts too much.

"You never loved me", he whispers. "You just used me."

She slaps him with her other hand, hard enough to make his ears ring, and his eyes fly open. The slap jerks his head, and the dagger presses deeper into his neck. He feels a trickle of blood slipping down.

" _I loved you!_ And where did it get me?", she hisses. "Every day since then I have dreamed of the day I could pay you back for your version of _love_.", she grits out, tugging down the choker she always wears, so he can see the scar the rope left behind.

Athos closes his eyes again, not able to bear the sight. Just as he had not been able to watch her executed back then, because it was killing not only her, but him as well. He, too, died that day.

How ironic that they both were still walking around.

"Then do it", he breathes. "Come on. Get it over with."

God, how he wants to get it over with.

He hears her hiss through her teeth, and for a second, the pressure of the dagger increases, and despite him being oh so ready for this, he tenses, his body readying to fight what his mind craves. Peace, finally.

Then, the dagger is gone, and there is the clatter of metal against the wall.

"Damn you, Athos", Anne grits out. "Damn you!"

And then her mouth is on his, hot, open and moist, and her body presses against him, soft and fragrant, and he remembers, oh, he remembers exactly as the old desire rises in him, craving her like a drug.

More than a drug, because he's been there, done that, and it's always been just a poor substitute for _this_.

And how he hated her for it. Loved her and hated her until he thought he'd go crazy, and the only thing that dulled the turmoil in his soul was what he found in a bottle.

But right here, right now, he just does not care anymore. Again, his life has been shattered. What does it matter if he loses himself in her, just this one time? Why can't he at least have this?

He's sick and tired of being rational, responsible. Of always putting duty first.

There's nothing left for him anyway.

He opens his mouth to let her in, and his arms close around her, the feeling more intoxicating than the best bottle of brandy. Her hands fist into his hair, and her teeth sink into his lips while she moans into his mouth, pressing harder against him.

There's nothing gentle about this, she is as greedy and impatient as himself, and he drags her to the narrow bed, pushing her down while she is busy ripping his shirt out of his breeches.

He's panting, on fire, and he's thrown reason to the wind, no thought left in him besides getting closer to her, burying himself in the heat of her body. Cursing those damned intricate dresses, he shoves her skirt up, no time to undress, her undergarments ripping under his impatient fingers.

She seems totally fine with this, deftly opening the lacings of his breeches, her breathing as heavy as his, and then he is on her, in her, groaning in bliss as her moist heat surrounds him.

She cries out, her nails digging into his skin, deeply, probably drawing blood, but he does not care, this feels so good. She has always been a wild one, driving him crazy, so different from the reserved noblewomen he knew.

Their lips meet, their tongues clash, and he shoves himself into her, again and again, forgetting everything but the bliss of holding her again.

His drug of choice.

She meets him, thrust for thrust, and finally cries out his name as she comes, clenching around him, driving him over the edge.

He screams his own release, and collapses on her, panting heavily, his mind blank and absolutely content for a blessed moment. Here it is, his moment of peace.

Then she squirms under him, and the moment ends. He slides off her, to his side, already dreading what comes next, but she just turns and snuggles into his arms, kissing him softly before she draws back a little.

"This was not how I planned this to turn out", she murmurs.

"Me neither", Athos replies, voice still rough. He knows he should get up and put a stop to this, but he can't resist the temptation to hold her a little bit longer, letting his fingers glide through her long, dark tresses.

She sighs and turns her head, nipping at his lips. "And as always, every time my plans fail, it's your fault".

"Can't say I'm sorry", he murmurs, his lips touching hers for what he tells himself will be the last kiss before he leaves.

She returns the kiss for a moment, but then draws back a little, so she can look into his face. "Well, that was... quite remarkable. Still, we have business to discuss, you and I."

And there it is, reality coming back to bite his behind. Athos takes a deep breath and leans back, on his side, his head propped up on his hand, and watches her intently, ready for the worst.

"We're the same now", Anne states, her hand stroking his chest through the open lacings of his shirt. "You've committed a crime worthy of a death sentence, too." She eyes him from beyond her lashes, obviously gauging his reaction.

Athos grits his teeth, the dread he felt earlier making a return, wondering where she was going with this.

"We're _nothing_ alike", he bites out. "You killed a man. I kissed one." And simply admitting it out loud makes him flush with shame, but she's seen the whole thing, so there's no use in denying anything.

"Makes no difference to the law, and you know it", she states, that slightly malicious smile back even as her hand continues to softly stroke his skin. "Aww, are you ashamed?"

Athos closes his eyes in humiliation. Because even after this, after holding Anne, the dirty desire he feels for d'Artagnan is not dead, the memory of the boy's lips under his own still vivid, still so tempting.

Anne moves a little, and trails a couple of small kisses down his throat to his collarbone. "Don't be. He _is_ quite the pretty one", she states, amusement obvious in her voice. "And most... enthusiastic. And arduous. I was sorely tempted to keep him."

A stab of jealousy so intense he nearly chokes on it jabs through Athos, and he opens his eyes to glare daggers at his wife.

"Ooooh," Anne coos, feigning alarm. "How... intimidating." She chuckles. "Jealous?", she mocks.

And he is. Oh, how he is, even if he himself can't truly tell of what.

Of d'Artagnan enthusiastically sleeping with Athos' wife? The wife he's been pining for those last five years?

Or of his wife being able to touch d'Artagnan? Kiss him, feel him, when Athos himself will never be able to do so?

Both, if he is honest with himself.

He is so jealous it's eating him from the inside.

"Hmmm", she smiles, pushing a strand of his hair out of his face in a strangely tender gesture. "You know what? I think you still want the boy, even after what we just did."

Athos just closes his eyes to hide from her much too observant gaze, and refuses to reply.

A sharp pain in his lip makes him hiss and draw back, opening his eyes again. Anne has bit him, and her eyes are narrowed, her face inscrutable.

"You know, I could get jealous, too", she claims, a hard edge to her voice. "You are mine, after all."

"Not anymore", Athos states, as firmly as he can manage. Because he knows it for the lie it is.

"Still fooling yourself?", she counters sharply. "Or trying to fool me? No matter, you and I know the truth. You've always been mine, even when you thought me dead. That's why you could not come after me, when you learned I was still alive."

Her face softens a little, and she once more reaches out to let her fingers slide through his hair.

"And strangely, I could not kill you too, even though I was so intent on my revenge. I had my dagger to your throat, _twice_ , and could not do it. Think on that, Athos."

Athos falls back on the pillow, and stares blankly up to the ceiling.

How often has he dreamed of this? Of holding her again, of a second chance, knowing there would never be one?

"It's too late for that", he says, wearily. "Too much has happened. We can't just erase the past. Burning the house is not enough."

"I knew you'd say this", she replies, and the hard edge is back in her voice. "That's why I'm perfectly ready to blackmail you."

Athos jerks up, his hands grabbing her arms in a movement too quick to evade, his hands pressing her bones so hard it must hurt, but she makes no effort to free herself, just smiles that evil little smile while she stares at him calmly.

"What are you planning?", Athos growls, fear coiling in his throat, because he has a very good idea where this is going.

"You know exactly, that's why you're so upset", she says, sweetly. "If you don't do as I say, the Cardinal will learn of what I saw last night. He will probably have the evil equivalent of an orgasm, thinking what he can do with this information."

A low, burning fury settled into Athos' stomach, so intense he is afraid it might consume him.

"Don't. You. Dare.", he grits through his teeth, and God be his witness, right now he is ready to kill her once more. He loves her, but he will _not_ let her harm d'Artagnan. Or the other Musketeers.

"Oh, don't get yourself in a lather", she sneers, obviously unimpressed. "And before you act on that murderous intent I see in your eyes, I should inform you that should I die or go missing, a letter will be delivered to the Cardinal, telling him exactly what you don't want him to know. So you better control that bloodthirsty mood."

Her smile is mocking him as cold dread does a lot to douse the hot fury raging in him, and slowly, with effort, he forces himself to release her arms. She has planned this perfectly. Trapped him.

"What do you want?", he asks, hoarsely. He does not bother pleading with her not to hurt d'Artagnan just to get revenge on Athos, knows very well it would be futile. She will pounce on any weakness she sees.

"I want your protection", she states, calmly, and once more Athos is left gaping at her, dumbfounded.

"Don't look at me like that", she says, impatiently. "Use your brains for once. Soon, the time will come when I have outlived my usefulness to Richelieu, and he will drop me like so much garbage. I need a fallback plan for this."

Athos still feels like his head is reeling.

" _I_ am your fallback plan?", he asks, aghast. "You _hate_ me."

Anne smacks him up the head. "Don't be an idiot. Of course I hate you. That is what makes this perfect." She smiles that evil little smile, her hand slowly trailing down his chest. "I would never accept your charity, would rather starve to death. But blackmailing you? Oh, _that_ is fun. And with what I saw yesterday? I've got you like this." She balls her hand to a fist in a crushing motion. "Which is exactly where I want you. This is so good, I wonder why I not just made it up weeks ago."

Her smile widens, and she bends forward, pressing her lips to his in a not entirely tender kiss. Athos closes his eyes, fighting the impulse to respond, feeling the need for her stir again, despite his desperate efforts do push it down.

"Besides", she sighs into his mouth, "I thought you already realized that my feelings for you are rather... complicated. This solution suits me rather well."

Athos forces himself to draw back. "If I do this, you will keep what you saw to yourself?", he asks, tonelessly.

If he is entirely honest to himself, which he tries very hard not to be, there is a part of him that is perfectly ready to surrender to her tricks. A part that is insanely relieved for this excuse to have her back. To fill that empty place in his soul her loss left behind.

Still, he _will_ protect his friends, whatever it takes.

"You have my word", she smiles.

His thoughts of Yeah, Right must show on his face, because she smacks him again, looking angry.

"I'm not stupid", she says, sharply. "I'm losing the advantage as soon as that information gets out. So it's in my best interest to keep my mouth shut, too."

Athos stares at her, hard. "See that you do. Because if you hurt him... them, there will be no hole to crawl into where I will not find you. And this time, I will end you myself. This I swear."

She holds his gaze for a moment, then chuckles softly. "You really mean that, do you?"

Athos does not reply, just keeps staring at her, and she shakes her head, smiling.

"That pretty little farmboy did a number on you, didn't he?"

Athos glances away, shame overwhelming his anger.

"I still have to leave Paris", he says, roughly. "I can't stay here."

"Too bad", she replies. flippantly. "Because here is where I need you. Do you think I'd let you slip out of my grasp that easily?"

Athos balls his hands into fists, desperate. "You don't understand! I can't stay here, can't..."

"...control yourself?", she finishes his sentence, and his head whips around, meeting her stare. "I saw that last night. You were _quite_ out of control." She tsks, mocking him. "I really felt rather jealous of the boy."

"Anne...", Athos groans, rubbing his face, mortified.

"Shhh", she hushes him, her finger against his lips. "Don't worry. I'll help you."

He glances at her, shamed and confused. "Help me? How?"

"I will let you use my house, stupid", she grins. "You can meet him there, and no one the wiser. Everyone will think you're visiting me."

Athos just stares at her, at a loss for words.

"But mind you", she adds, her voice suddenly deadly serious, her eyes hard. She leans forward until her face is nearly touching his. "I'm ready to tolerate this. But if I ever see you touching another woman, I will gut you both. Take my word on that."

Still speechless, Athos just continues to stare at his wife, thinking this must be what finally going mad felt like.


	12. Torn

Athos groans and carefully extracts himself from his bed when someone keeps pounding on his door.

Someone, right.

He massages his aching temples as he makes for the door, then slowly retracts the latch he personally installed.

He knows perfectly well who this visitor will be, and he'll be damned if he has her sneaking in at night while he's sleeping.

Arming himself for whatever is to come, he draws a deep breath and opens the door. At least he's not that badly hungover this morning.

He looks down into the irritated face of this wife and simply steps back without a word, clearing the entrance.

She steps in an glances around, taking in the - for him at least - few empty wine bottles strewn around the floor.

Athos still finds it hard to live with himself, maybe even harder than before. That empty place in his soul left behind by the loss of Anne does not hurt so much anymore. She's back, after all.

But now the guilt is eating him alive. Guilt for being weak. For sleeping with his brother's murderer. For still loving her.

And on top of that, he just can't help himself. He can't stop thinking about d'Artagnan, about hat soft, silky, dark hair, those smouldering dark eyes, those full, supple lips.

God help him, he's back to sleeping with his murderous wife, but he still wants the boy.

"Oh, for the love of...", Anne's voice interrupts his thoughts. "This is pathetic, Athos. You're a wreck. And it won't do at all. You're no use to me like this."

Athos just shrugs and leans back against the wall, watching her intently. As if he cares to be of use to her. He's only here because he's being blackmailed, after all.

There's that little voice in the back of his head telling him he did not put up much of a fight, but he silences it brutally.

Anne sighs and steps over, stopping in front of him. "Shouldn't you be glad?", she asks, those sinful red lips pouting invitingly. "You still love me, after all."

Athos closes his eyes to shut out the sight, those lips, those green eyes, the curtain of lustrous brown locks, asking to be touched.

He loves her. He hates her. Wants to kill her, wants to kiss her. She murdered his brother. And it kills Athos that deep inside, there's a part of him he would never admit to. A part that simply _does not care_. A part that is just glad that she is back in his life, and wants to lose itself in her.

He feels her hand in his hair in an unusually tender gesture and opens his eyes again, staring at her.

He could have sworn there was concern on her face, sadness in her eyes, but with her, who could really tell? No one lies better than her, even when she's not saying a word.

She sighs again and takes that small step to cross the last inches separating them, carefully leaning her head against his shoulder.

And he's helpless against her, helpless against his own longing. He closes his arms around her and buries his face in her hair, torn between his feelings for her, and the guilt it makes him feel.

She has changed those last five years. There is something about her, a wickedness that has not been there before. And God help him, he finds it alluring.

Put on top his newfound taste for his own sex, and he's a total emotional disaster.

It's moments like this that make him want to crawl into a bottle and never come out again.

She lifts her head and looks into his eyes, her face just inches from his, and Athos can't help it, he gives in to temptation, his lips meeting hers, and she has been waiting for this, her mouth open, willing, seductive.

The kiss is not gentle, their kisses never are. Too much anger, too much need on both sides. They break away, breathing heavily, and Athos curses his traitorous body, curses the want that is already wakening again.

Will anything ever dull his desire for her?

"This can't go on", she says, a little breathless, and lets her fingers glide through his hair once more. "You can't stay cooped up here, slowly drinking yourself to death. You need to go back to the garrison."

"What?", Athos exclaims, aghast, shoving her back a little. "I can't go back. Are you crazy?"

He already knows the answer to that question. Of course she's crazy. As is he.

Her eyes narrow, and her lips compress into a tight line. "A drunkard in a hovel in Paris is no use to me. Athos the Musketeer is. So you will ask them to take you back. I'll bet they'll just jump at the chance."

"I can't", Athos hisses. "You don't understand..."

"Understand what?", she interrupts, her voice hard. "That you still pine for the farmboy? Oh, I do." She eyes him speculatively. "I never thought you'd be... into that. I find it most interesting. Although I have to admit I _am_ a little jealous."

Athos closes his eyes and turns away, the old shame choking him.

"Still", Anne continues, mercilessly. "That's where I need you. Go back and deal with it. Otherwise your farmboy will suffer the consequences."

Athos hears her steps going for the door, but he does not turn back to face her.

The thought of having to face d'Artagnan again fills him with dread.

And giddy anticipation.

xxx

Back in the courtyard, d'Artagnan leans back against the wall and watches Porthos spar with another musketeer, while the Captain looks down from his porch, his face even more grim than usual.

They all look more grim than usual these days.

They all feel the loss of Athos.

And if d'Artagnan feels it more sorely than the others, that is something he tries not to let on.

But he does miss Athos so badly. His absence feels like a gaping wound in his side. He has never realized how much his life had revolved around the other man, how used he has gotten to having Athos at his back. Watching over him. Supporting him, spurring him on. Forcing him to grow.

Always at his back, like his own personal guardian angel.

Cynical, broken, lost and beautiful guardian angel.

And d'Artagnan would give his right arm to see him walk through that gateway once more.

But Athos has been gone for days, and it does not seem he will be back.

Athos is gone, and d'Artagnan is left behind, feeling empty. Incomplete. And more hurt than he thought possible.

And he keeps wondering if there is something he could have done, or said, or done differently, to keep Athos from leaving, turning events in his head again and again, looking for the moment where it all went wrong, even though he knows it's useless, that he can't turn back time and change things, no matter what.

It's too late.

He swallows when he sees Aramis approaching and turns to look at the older man when he settles against the wall at d'Artagnan's side.

Aramis looks sad, as they all do, but he meets d'Artagnan's eyes with a faint smile. D'Artagnan breaks the eye contact and looks down, feeling guilty for letting everyone down.

He hears Aramis sigh softly.

"I'm sorry", Aramis says quietly. "It was wrong of me to heap all the blame on you. It's just... I watched Athos suffer for so long. I did not want him to hurt even more."

Anguished, d'Artagnan looks up to meet Aramis' sad eyes.

"I never...", he starts, but Aramis stops him with a gesture.

"I know", he says, with another sigh. "You're not responsible for Athos' feelings. I should never have blamed you for that. And you could not have kept him from leaving, either. There's no stopping Athos once his mind is made up, after all."

Aramis claps his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and pushes away from the wall.

"So, I just wanted you to know we're good", he adds as he turns away.

D'Artagnan swallows as his eyes turn back to the fight in the courtyard.

Athos' absence still hurts like hell.

But he feels a bit better for knowing he still has friends.


	13. Reckless

_So, this is it - the last chapter of the story. Hope you enjoyed the ride._

 _By the way, I added a small scene to the end of the last chapter, inspired by a review of the lovely Nurse13. So, before reading this chapter, best check back to Torn and read the last scene._

 _Thank you all for bearing with me, and for reading the story. I had a lot of fun, sending Athos and d'Artagnan through hell, and I hope you did, too._

* * *

When there is a knock on the door, Athos sighs and goes to draw back the latch. Half of him dreads what his wife has to say or will do this time. The other, very guilty half, is actually looking forward to it.

Fight it as he may, she has her claws in him, and he simply is not able to get away. And to be honest, those last days he has not been trying very hard.

Which just amplifies the guilt that is gnawing at his insides.

He pulls the door open, and his thoughts come to a screeching halt when to his utter shock he does not look into Anne's lovely countenance, but into the just as shocked face of d'Artagnan.

That giddy feeling starts doing backflips in Athos' stomach.

"What...", he starts.

"You...?", d'Artagnan blurts out at the same time. Then his face sets into grim determination and he forcefully pushes forward before Athos can shut the door, shoving Athos back into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

Surprised, Athos stumbles back, rather shaken from suddenly gazing into the face he thought he'd never see again. And from the way his eyes have instantly been drawn against his will to d'Artagnan's full mouth, remembering how soft those lips felt under his.

He draws a deep breath, trying to get these cursed feelings under control.

"Just leave", he says, trying to sound calm, but taking a few steps away from temptation nevertheless.

And oh, how tempted he is.

Damn. He is back with Anne, in a way. Shouldn't that stop his pining for a certain farmboy from Gascony? What is _wrong_ with him?

But suddenly, unexpectedly coming face to face with d'Artagnan, after trying – rather unsuccessfully - to force thoughts of the boy out of his head, shakes him to the core. He can feel his heart racing.

"Oh no,", d'Artagnan answers, his chin set in a stubborn line, and just hearing his voice intensifies the backflips his stomach is doing in a way Athos does not want to think about. "Forget it. Not before I know what's going on."

"Nothing is going on. Just go." Athos tries to keep his voice carefully level, but he just can't look d'Artagnan in the eye, so he averts his face. It would not do to let d'Artagnan see the turmoil raging in him.

" _Nothing_? Are you joking? I get _this_...", d'Artagnan draws a slip of paper from his pocket, steps forward and waves it in front of Athos eyes, "...slipped under my door, and now here you are. _Nothing_ , really?"

Athos snatches the paper out of d'Artagnan's hand, suddenly chilled, and stares at the note. There are words written on it, in a delicate handwriting he knows so very well.

 _Rue de Petit Pont 43._

 _Come alone, and you will find the answers you're looking for._

 _A friend._

Athos stares at d'Artagnan, so appalled that for the moment it drowns out all those other muddled emotions he's trying to suppress.

"A _friend_?", he asks caustically. "Truly? And you just come running? _Alone_?"

D'Artagnan has the grace to blush, but refuses to look away. "Well, I did. And here you are."

Athos throws another glance at the dubious letter and throws it on the table with disgust. "Anne", he mutters, darkly. "I _told_ her not to contact you."

He hears d'Artagnan inhale sharply. "Anne? Your _wife_?"

Athos hears d'Artagnan step forward and just has time to quickly turn around before the boy is there, grabbing the front of his shirt in both fists, shoving Athos back into a wall.

That certainly seems to become a habit.

"Is that why you left m... the Musketeers?", d'Artagnan demands, hotly, his eyes dark and furious. "To be with _her_ again? You chose her over... us?"

Athos just stares back, refusing to answer, fighting the nearly irresistible urge to run his hands through that silky, shimmering hair. He knows he should push the boy back, get some distance, but d'Artagnan is so close, and it just feels too good.

D'Artagnan fists Athos' shirt tighter and leans in, his weight pressing into Athos' chest.

"Did you... sleep with her?", he asks in a strangled voice.

Athos averts his eyes. "None of your business", he says, while his stomach churns with an unholy cocktail of emotions - lust, guilt, fear, anger, need. He tells himself has to keep the lid on it, because if he doesn't, this is going to end in disaster, but fighting against this sick want gets harder and harder. He balls his hands into fists and shoves them behind his back to stop himself from reaching out.

D'Artagnan draws an unsteady breath "Damn you, Athos", he snarls, pulling Athos from the wall a bit, then shoving him back with force. "Damn you!"

"Enough!", Athos growls, desperate, pushing d'Artagnan back violently, not caring that his shirt gets ripped out of his breeches before it slips out of the boy's grasp. He needs that distance, now. Before he does something stupid.

Because d'Artagnan... is jealous. And if Athos thought that controlling himself was difficult before that realization, he now understands that it has been easy before. Knowing that d'Artagnan might... feel something for Athos, too, makes resisting that damnable pull near impossible.

D'Artagnan stumbles back a little, taken by surprise by Athos' sudden action. He stares at Athos for a few seconds, then the furious fire dies in his eyes, and he slumps against the table, like a puppet who has its strings drawn.

He stares at the floor, his face flushing, obviously ashamed. "I... can't forget, Athos", he whispers, hesitatingly. "I tried, but I just can't. I...", d'Artagnan swallows, not finishing the sentence.

Athos leans back against the wall, closes his eyes. "I know", he says, shakily, hating how hard this is, hating himself for the sliver of hope that threatens to rise in him. Because it does not matter, should not matter, that d'Artagnan seems to want this, too.

It's still wrong. Forbidden. Dangerous.

He hears tentative footsteps approach, but refuses to open his eyes.

"I have never... it's never been like this", he hears d'Artagnan's voice from right in front of him. The boy's voice is shaky, but he plods on, always the one to take the bull by the horns, going for a frontal assault.

"When you touched me... it was..." d'Artagnan draws another shuddering breath, and bends forward, until his mouth touches Athos' ear. "I want that again, Athos", he whispers. "Do it again."

Athos groans as the words seem to reach directly into his cock, making it throb, but he grits his teeth and shoves d'Artagnan backwards.

That, too, seems to become a habit.

"Have you lost your mind?", he growls, harshly, furious with d'Artagnan for making this harder, and even more furious with himself for being unable to kill those wretched feelings. "Do you even know what you're saying?"

Angrily, Athos stares at d'Artagnan, tries to stare him down. The boy is breathing heavily, his hands are balled into fists, and his eyes are dark and hot, fierce.

"Don't patronize me, Athos", he says, bristling. "I'm not a kid."

Athos just snorts.

"Oh, that's rich", d'Artagnan exclaims, livid. "So it's alright for you to grope me in an alley, but _I_ have lost my mind? You blasted _hypocrite_!"

Athos says nothing. Because d'Artagnan is right, and it stings.

"Alright then", d'Artagnan carries on, still angry, stepping forward, poking Athos' chest with his finger. "Tell me you...", he swallows, still having difficulties saying it out loud, but stubbornly goes on, "tell me you don't want me. Go on, _tell_ me."

Athos looks away.

"Hah!", d'Artagnan exclaims.

"Doesn't matter", Athos grits out, bitterly. "Because whatever _I_ want, it's still wrong. Sick."

D'Artagnan exhales slowly, visibly calming down with an effort, then leans against the wall next to Athos. "You know what Aramis said?", he asks. "He said that whatever the Bible or the law says, he does not think God frowns on love, whichever form it takes." He throws Athos a short, tentative glance. "I don't know about you, but that sounds very wise to me."

Athos snorts again. "That sounds very much like Aramis."

D'Artagnan grins a little, despite himself. "It does, doesn't it? But it still sounds about right to me."

Athos sighs, turning his head to look at d'Artagnan. "It still makes no difference. Because it's not God who will burn us on a stake. I'll not risk your life."

"Yeah, well", d'Artagnan forks his fingers through his hair, and as always, Athos is captivated, his eyes drawn to the silky, shimmering length. That hair is much too pretty. How is a man supposed to resist?

"I've been thinking on that, too, since you've gone away", the boy continues, scuffing the floor with the toes of his boots while staring down. "You know what I think? I think we're Musketeers. Soldiers. We risk our lives every day, every time we go to battle, every time we walk the streets. It's highly unlikely we die of old age. Every day could be our last. And I don't want to die thinking _I wish I'd had the courage to grasp a little happiness_ , do you?

Athos simply stares at the boy while he digests all this.

It feels like an epiphany.

Looking back, the last five years, all he had were regrets. For all the things he'd lost, couldn't save, or threw away, because he thought he had to. Because it was his _duty_. And the last few weeks have been even worse. He's been tearing himself up, because of what he feels and should not feel for d'Artagnan, because he still loves Anne and should hate her.

He's been like a walking dead man, caught in chains of his own making.

D'Artagnan's words seem to echo in his head. Every day could be their last.

And suddenly, he's so sick and tired of trying to live up to everyone else's expectations. Squandering his life, feeling guilty and ashamed, crawling into a bottle just to be able to bear the gaping emptiness inside.

This is _his_ life.

And d'Artagnan is _right_ : Every day can be the last.

Suddenly, everything seems so clear.

He's not going to waste his time anymore, only because he's afraid to take a risk.

He turns around and lets his trembling fingers glide through d'Artagnan's glossy hair, closes his eyes to enjoy the silky feel of it between his fingers.

Finally.

"Are you sure you want this?", he asks, hoarsely, still nervous despite his newfound resolution.

"I want _you_ ", the boy's voice whispers into Athos' ear, and Athos shudders when he feels d'Artagnan's hands slip under his shirt, slowly, tentatively.

All that bottled up want wells up in Athos, and he drowns in it, moaning as his mouth clashes with d'Artagnan's, who seems just as greedy.

It still feels strange to kiss another man, someone who is the same size, feeling stubble scrape against his skin, strong muscles rippling under his hands instead of a smooth, slender back.

But he wants it, wants it so much, and to hear d'Artagnan choke out a needy sob while he presses into Athos, pushing his hardness against Athos' own raging erection, drives him crazy.

He just lets it out, lets out all the feelings, all the need he has kept locked up inside for too long. He is past caring about consequences. He will have this. Have d'Artagnan. Now.

Growling into d'Artagnan's mouth, he rips the younger man's shirt while he starts dragging him to the narrow bed, and shudders when he feels d'Artagnan's fingers pulling roughly, impatiently, on the lacings of Athos' breaches.

Pushing d'Artagnan down on the bed, he rips the tatters of the shirt away, and for a second just stares down on the boy, drinking in the sight. D'Artagnan is just as beautiful as Athos has always imagined, lean, strong muscles under velvety, dusky skin, that gorgeous hair spread over the white pillow.

"Athos...", the boy moans, and Athos's eyes meet d'Artagnan's dark ones, now completely black with emotions, and briefly wonders if his own look just like that: Hazy with lust and feverishly bright.

The split second of hesitation obviously seems too long for d'Artagnan, because he growls and grabs Athos' shirt with both hands, and with one forceful tug rips it open from hem to collar.

"Now", he commands hoarsely, pulling Athos down into another fierce, needy kiss.

And when skin meets skin, Athos just stops thinking altogether, losing himself in the passion he's been yearning for far too long.

xxx

In front of the ramshackle door, Anne straightens and turns to leave, her face inscrutable. She would be lying to herself if she said she did not mind what happened behind that door.

If she said she was not jealous of a certain pretty farmboy.

But she has come to realize that if she does not want Athos to go to hell in a handbasket, something needs to be done. She just hopes those two will be able to sort it out from here on without her help, though she's not going not bet on it. Men _are_ darned stupid, after all.

Oh well, for now, things seem to go as planned. Hopefully, the Gascon can draw Athos back from that brink he maneuvered himself up to.

Because she told Athos the truth - she needs a fallback plan for the time the Cardinal will not require her services any longer. She knows perfectly well that her life is forfeit as soon as she outlives her usefulness. She knows too much.

Having the Musketeers at her back then will be a life saver. They are the only ones able to stand up to Richelieu, constantly thwarting his plans.

And if that is not her only reason to save Athos from himself, that is something she will never tell.

Besides...

She delicately nibbles on one of her long, elegant nails, imagining what's just now happening in that spartan little room upstairs, and suddenly feels the urge to fan herself a little. Those images in her head are... delectable.

Maybe there are possibilities here? Not today, certainly, but in the future?

Which woman would be able to say no to having _two_ devastatingly handsome men in her bed, after all?

For now satisfied with the results of her effort, and already spinning plans for how to proceed from here, Anne makes her way into the bustling streets of Paris.


End file.
